


games and theories

by opheliafloats (eighthchakra)



Category: Fallout 3
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M, OOC EVERYONE IS OOC GODDAMNIT, i actually have no idea what is up with this fic?????, kind of a past lives thing going on but idk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-20
Updated: 2014-09-20
Packaged: 2018-02-18 02:45:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2332400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eighthchakra/pseuds/opheliafloats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She feels a vague sense of deja vu but it's probably just because she hasn't had coffee in such a long time. Amata likes to joke that their professor is more Philip K. Dick novel than human. She adds a punchline about goats. Then  something about cockroaches and sweetolls and some godforsaken time where she and Butch DeLoria were actually friends. Susie Mack snorts. </p><p>Obviously, they spend too much time at the Canterbury Commons thinking about other lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	games and theories

**Author's Note:**

> wow lol i have no idea what i have done  
> all of the segments are disjointed because i'm horrible at plotting things out  
> also flirting???? wat???? v. weird  
> also ooc-ness  
> esp. harkness  
> i am so sorry jesus christ 
> 
> this is also probably not done yet I AM SO SORRY
> 
> idk it depends?????

Thirty-five seconds before Amata clocks out, Butch DeLoria walks in and orders the last sweetroll. He smells like old leather and cigarettes and caramel apples - nothing completely unpleasant, she thinks - and he offers her a gruff and low "thanks" before running off to some fistfight or Fight Club thing Amata probably couldn't comprehend. She hangs her apron in the Employees' room, fixes herself a cup of coffee - black, like how she used to make it for her father - and sits down beside Cathy and Susie. 

Amata's the only one who works - Susie can snark her way through college (she's had fifteen free meals last week), and Cathy quit making coffee a few months ago. Amata's a bit worried about Cathy, the poor kid's always slaving over her internship with some weird-ass cognitive researcher. Dr. Zambo. Dr. Zeus. Something. "It's competitive," Cathy says, and the conservation is over. At least Cathy is free during Friday nights. 

The three of them know Amata doesn't really need to work; her father is the mayor of their home town and he sends her more cash in a month than what Cathy's dad can make in a year. Amata doesn't spend much of it, though - she likes using her own money. She likes working, too, but Susie just says it's because Butch sometimes buys sugary pastries so sometimes, their hands briefly touch or some romantic comedy fodder like that. Amata laughs, but she doesn't brush it off. She's had a crush on Butch ever since they were little kids. 

No one expected all of them to go to university together. Rivet University isn't anything close to an ivory tower, and Amata's father always sends her brochures of other colleges. "Better" colleges. Tenpenny University. Roosevelt Academy. The Citadel. Amata usually gives them to Cathy, who has the heart and soul of a nomad. Or some forest creature. Cathy hates staying in one place for too long. Gives her the creeps. 

"I guess our destinies are just connected that way," Susie says, half-seriously. "I want more cake." 

"Did you see the new brochure for Megaton State University?" Cathy asks, "Their programs are really great." 

"Yeah, well, Megaton State's falling apart," Susie replies, mid-bite, "Probably less boring than here, though." 

"Hmm, yeah, my dad said something about a weird religious thing going on there," Amata adds, "If you plan on leaving, finish the term, at least." 

"I wasn't planning on leaving," Cathy says. 

"Good, if you stay, maybe at the end of the year, Amata and Butch would finally be together," Susie laughs. 

Amata gives her a look that is in between "oh, please" and some leftover adolescent eagerness and the three of them say cheers and clink their mugs. 

Cathy feels a vague sense of deja vu but it's probably just because she hasn't slept in two weeks. 

 

 

Cathy hates how she's named after her mother. She doesn't feel like a Catherine. She feels like she's meant to be called something else - not a name, but a title, a promise. She brings it up with her dad the day before he's set to leave for some research expedition. Clean water. No radiation. Free medical care. Her dad's one of those Doctors Without Borders types. A nerdier Indiana Jones. He says nothing and instead ruffles her hair. She's too old to be thinking about arbitrary things like names. You don't have to be Cathy, he says, as long as you're you. 

This is probably the reason why John Kendall hates him. 

So she introduces herself as Catherine on the first day of the new term. Lots of new transferees. Moira Brown. The dreaded Christine Kendall. Freddie Gomez laughs somewhere at the back of the room, but a girl named Bittercup kicks him in the shin. 

Cathy usually eats lunch inside Dr. Zimmer's lab. She's looking into simian behavior and ignores the strange complexities of human emotions. She eats alone because Amata's majoring in Business or Management or some supervisory elitist track and hangs out with top tier kids like Cross. Susie's finally settled into the educational track and into Freddie's arms so they don't talk much in school. It's okay. Cathy's never really liked her much. When they were kids, Susie told her to never speak with her. Only Cathy remembers this. 

Her lunch is a soggy slice of pepperoni pizza and a lukewarm can of coke. Technically, eating in the lab isn't allowed, but what Dr. Zimmer doesn't know won't hurt him. He's a crabby old bastard and abhors Cathy's favorite professor. Cathy swings her legs on the computer chair, updating the Excel files when needed, and watches The Truman Show. She doesn't even know where Dr. Zimmer is half the time, but she doesn't care. It may be an unpaid internship, but she gets free coffee and access to the Faculty Library. 

When she hears the door being unlocked, she closes the internet browser ("Was nothing real?" Jim Carrey asks) and plays around with some raw data. Can't be Zimmer, though. Too early. It's 1:00 pm. He'd still be at class. 

"Zimmer?" someone else asks. Younger. Slightly vexed. Cathy tries to look busy. 

Footsteps. Closer. A louder "Zimmer?" Cathy types faster - Zimmer once told her he only took one intern at a time. Maximize training and whatnot. She feels a bit cheated. 

"It's Harkness. Dr. Li said there were people working in the lab so I figured -" 

They stop at the same time. Harkness must be disappointed. She definitely is not Dr. Zimmer. The lab feels wrong without the sound of typing to buffer the solitude. 

Cathy turns around, deer in half-dim headlights. 

"Um, no," she says. Carefully. Too carefully. She fumbles anyway. "Dr. Zimmer has a class until 1:30. Object and Face Recognition. Prosopagnosia and other cool things, you know. I mean, not cool, but..." 

Harkness chuckles. Cathy takes the time to look at him. From an academic standpoint, naturally. He is in a gray suit but his tie is undone. Frazzled academic chic. His tie is blue, light like his eyes, and he has orange hair, almost blond underneath the harsh lab lights. He sets down the manila envelopes he's been holding on the table across where Cathy is working. Harkness seems too old to be an undergrad, but it's hard to tell. He has a nice smile. Reaches his eyes. 

"So you're one of his interns?" Harkness asks. 

"Yeah, I'm Catherine." She wonders if she should extend a hand. 

"Harkness." He holds her right hand. His grip is firm. She's the first one to let go. They're both unhappy about it. 

"Well, if you'd wait a few more minutes, I'm certain Dr. Zimmer would be back," she tells him. 

"You know," he says, "I think we've met before." 

"Is that something you always say to people you've just met?" The question slips past her lips without her brain filtering it and she cringes at how pathetically and openly she's flirting with him. (Because, yes, that's what she's doing, she's flirting, and she wishes she's read more of Susie's teen magazines). God, Cath, get a grip. 

"Funny, but no," Harkness takes a seat beside her and he smells like old books and aftershave and wow, Cathy should probably get ready for her next class. Game Theory. The mathematics of decision-making. God help her if she's even further reduced into binary 0s and 1s. 

"So -" Harkness begins, but Cathy cuts him off. 

"I have to prepare for class," she says. 

"Right," he says, defeated (at least, that's what she wishes to think), "I'll see you around, Catherine." 

 

 

"Nosebleed!" A textbook collides with the back of her head. It's Butch. Being an ass. As usual. Butch is what Amata likes to call "majoring in shifting" - he's transferred to about five different programs in the course of half a year. Right now, he's in Fine Arts and he seems to be enjoying himself. After he beat up some of his fellow ex-Tunnel Snakes to get his point across. He has nothing to be ashamed of, anyway. He's good at painting, Cathy thinks, he's kind of like the Bukowski of post-modern art. 

"DeLoria," she sighs, "Stop calling me that." 

"Aw, Nosebleed, you gotta lighten up, man," Butch shoves her forward a bit (his physical definition of a reassuring pat on the back), "Anyway, we gots the same class, I think. Game Theory? No prof listed, but I hope it's a she and I hope she's hot." 

"Why are you taking Game Theory?" she quirks a brow. 

"Can't a guy just learn about making decisions using math?" 

"Not when the guy is you." 

"That hurts, Nosebleed." But Butch is smiling. Butch isn't nice to her often, but they've been good acquaintances - kind of - since childhood in their small town ("that goddamn vault," Butch says). Still, she feels that they've been friends, somewhere else, a far away place, some once upon a time. Sometimes, the friendship just kind of bleeds through. 

"We'll be late." 

Cathy leaves him lingering near the doorway, and enters the classroom.

"Hello, Catherine," Harkness greets her. He's calm. Eerily professional. His blue tie is knotted properly. Windsor. 

In retrospect, she should have called it - it should have been obvious, really - but Cathy knows she's not in a goddamn young adult novel (she probably should have read more of Susie's chick lit than Grognak the Barbarian) and Butch is behind her, grumbling, why didn't we get some hot chick. He slinks into the nearest chair. 

She turns to Harkness before taking a seat behind Butch. 

"Hello," she says. Good. She sounds normal. Confident. 

He offers her a quiet smile and her stomach lurches. 

 

 

It's Friday night again at Canterbury Commons. Amata's done working, and the three of them are eating Uncle Roe's rejected batch of chocolate chip cookies. Susie has spiked her coffee with a lot of whiskey, and Amata's hankering for a bit of liquor, too. It's almost Halloween season, and Moira Brown is hosting a big party. No one likes her much but no one cares. A party is a party. Even Bittercup and Reilly and Freddie and my goddamn brother are going, Susie says. The "we should go" is implied. Cathy declines; she has intern duty (no one pushes her to go - they all know how lame she is at parties. Freddie Gomez invited her to his last one and she sort of got drunk and ended up hiding in the bathroom. "You didn't even, I dunno, dance on tables or something," Susie sighed). Amata asks if Butch will be there. 

"Definitely," Susie says, "I guess."

"Okay," Amata replies. Surely. Amata is the kind of person who compartmentalizes. She controls her work, her feelings, her friends. She hates ellipses and pauses. 

"Grow a pair, woman," Susie shrieks, loud enough for the other customers to glare. Amata tells her to shut the fuck up. (The "fuck" is implied, but Susie gets it). 

"I mean, you guys did kiss once...back at the vault," Cathy offers. No one likes to speak of this, but if anyone's dragging skeletons out of anything, then Cathy's the best person to do it. Cathy's soft and edgeless. Born arbiter. Born mediator. Even her name has that floating i ending. 

"That was nothing," Amata murmurs. 

"Cockroaches," Cathy says. It's sudden. Cathy's never sudden. 

"What?" Susie slurs. 

"Nothing," Cathy replies. She remembers Butch and cockroaches and Amata and screaming. But they were large cockroaches. Something about radiation? Cathy's not sure. It's weird. 

"Someone's bein' weird tonight," Susie giggles. 

"I think we should call Freddie," Amata suggests, "Give me Susie's phone, Cath." 

Cathy obliges before focusing all her attention on her now cold coffee. 

 

 

"Freddie's not here right now," Butch says over the phone, "Whaddaya need, Sus-"

"It's Amata. Susie's drunk. Can Freddie bring her home?" Amata prays Butch can't hear the faint nervousness in her voice. 

"Yeah, no problemo, Amata. Long time no talkin'." 

"How long will he get here?" 

"Canterbury Commons? Ten minutes tops." 

"Good. Alright. And..."

"Yeah?"

"You going to Moira's party?"

"Maybe. Are you?"

Amata takes a deep breath. "If you are."

"Okay. I'll pick you up then at 8."

"Okay."

 

 

Cathy's running late because she had to screen all thirty-seven of Amata's prospective Halloween dresses. Amata can be disgustingly thorough, but Cathy doesn't complain. They're friends. Best friends, even. ("If you have boy troubles, too, you tell me, okay?" Amata once told her. Cathy simply laughed in her face). But now Dr. Zimmer will probably skin her alive or worse, expel her from the internship. Cathy can't let that happen. She likes the internship (honestly), and sometimes, Professor Harkness drops by and they chat a bit. Can't jeopardize that, she thinks, half as a jest, then her chest sinks when she finds out the only joke is on her. 

It's drizzling outside, but Cathy doesn't have the patience to hail a cab. Besides, Dr. Zimmer's lab is only a few blocks away from their usual cafe. Go university towns, she thinks. Hooray. She's half-running, half-running out of breath, when a well-worn Chrysler stops in front of her. It's used and there are chips in the black paint. Pretty car, she thinks. Then: get the fuck out of my way. 

The window rolls down. It's Harkness. He sighs. "Fuck, Cathy." 

"Am I that late?" she replies, running out of quips. 

"The old bastard's running late, as well, so don't worry too much," he says. She can't discern the tone of his voice. 

"Alright, then, I'll see you-"

"Get in." Harkness opens the door to the passenger seat. "Faster this way."

"Right. Uh...thanks, professor." 

She fastens the seatbelt and marvels at how Harkness' car smells like cinnamon. He's not an elegant man (his lectures are always him half-swearing about game theory - "humans are selfish bastards" - and bad puns, but god, he's a genius), but he's gruff in an honest way. It's nice. He's nice, Cathy thinks. And she likes the way he says Cathy. 

"Thanks again, professor." She's a bit embarrassed now. She probably looked really stupid running and flailing. Like the only participant of a weird headless chicken mating ritual. Goddamn troglodyte, she thinks. 

"You're a fucking idiot sometimes, Catherine," he says, but not unkindly. There's a certain fondness, somehow, and Cathy hopes she's not just imagining things. She catches his eye and god, his eyes really bore into you. They're blue, not an abyssopelagic ocean-y blue, but a sky blue. Light. Airy. Calm.

Fuck. 

"We're here," Harkness says. "Come on. Better check on your simian behavior simulators."

"Of course," Cathy steps out of the car and is suddenly shocked how cold it has become. 

"It's October," he shrugs, but offers her his coat. She declines. They're just climbing up a flight of stairs. 

It feels as if she's done this before. Climbing up stairs with Harkness. But more blood involved. Zimmer dead. "Self-determination is not a malfunction."

"What?" Harkness asks, and Cathy realizes she's said something aloud.

"Oh. Nothing. Weird hallucination." 

 

 

"How was the party?" Cathy asks Butch in class. 

"Fine," Butch shrugs. 

"You and Amata...?"

"We're okay," he offers. 

"Moira Brown wasn't too weird?"

"Shut the fuck up, Nosebleed." 

 

 

Cathy sees Amata and Susie less. Amata and Butch seem to have something going on. They're both not willing to definite it - Amata because she doesn't want to be too rash, Butch because he's never actually been a definition sort of person - but they're gone on Fridays. Butch rarely talks to her. It's usually "fuck off, Nosebleed." Amata even skips work. Refuses to answer her calls. Susie decides that the two of them without Amata just don't work, so she breaks things off, perhaps even remembering her childhood threat. Cathy doesn't mind. She immerses herself more deeply into her work. Human decision-making versus primate decision-making. Jesus, she's horrible at making decisions. Very, very, very far from the Nash equilibrium, she's pretty sure. 

It's Friday night, and she's not at Canterbury Commons. First time for everything. Dr. Zimmer is out lambasting his fellow faculty members at some symposium. It's just her. That's okay. She likes her little orchestra of her fingers hitting the keyboard, the sound of the printer, the thoughts flowing through her head. She forgets to hear the door open. Only when Harkness sets the cup of coffee in front of her is she able to stop the music. 

"Hey," she says. Cathy wonders if "hey" is too informal. 

Harkness brushes the hair from her eyes, "Don't fucking overwork yourself, Cathy." 

"To be honest, I think I've watched more movies than done actual work," she says, trying to distance herself from him, "But don't tell Dr. Zimmer."

"Your secret's safe with me, kid," he laughs, and god, she loves it when he laughs. It's such a deep, overwhelming sound; genuine, even. As if he's really happy to be with her here. 

(They've been happy, too, somewhere else. Not here. She tells herself to shut up). 

"I brought pizza," Harkness says, "Pepperoni."

"Oh...thanks," Cathy moves to open the box, but Harkness beats her to it. Their hands accidentally brush and he clears his throat. 

They eat in silence. It's oddly comforting, as if eating pizza with Harkness on a hazy Friday night is the most natural thing in the world. Perhaps it is. 


End file.
